And the final of the four is called "Mall at Night."
It's M-A-L-L rather than M-A-W-L.
There is no shade in the forest when
we beat our wings against the moss
and tear the petals off the spruce,
revealing what's never said but spoken,
companion to discordant facts stacked
three foot high above the drawers, clogging corridors.
Consonance, is this world's only comfort?
Stony stairs, stars on bleary night,
awake enough to lose a dozen threads.
Invent a baker's dozen more for recompense.
The gravel does not hold, the road beyond repair.
Yet closer, too, by far, than dusk's approaching glare.